Death Comes to Pemberley

1

It was taken for granted both by the family and the parish that Mr and Mrs Darcy and their household would be seen in the village church of St Mary at eleven o’clock on Sunday morning. The news of Captain Denny’s murder had spread with extraordinary rapidity and for the family not to appear would have been an admission either of involvement in the crime or of their conviction of Mr Wickham’s certain guilt. It is generally accepted that divine service affords a legitimate opportunity for the congregation to assess not only the appearance, deportment, elegance and possible wealth of new arrivals to the parish, but the demeanour of any of their neighbours known to be in an interesting situation, ranging from pregnancy to bankruptcy. A brutal murder on one’s own property by a brother by marriage with whom one is known to be at enmity will inevitably produce a large congregation, including some well-known invalids whose prolonged indisposition had prohibited them from the rigours of church attendance for many years. No one, of course, was so ill bred as to make their curiosity apparent, but much can be learnt by the judicious parting of fingers when the hands are raised in prayer, or by a single glance under the protection of a bonnet during the singing of a hymn. The Reverend Percival Oliphant, who had before the service paid a private visit to Pemberley House to convey his condolences and sympathy, did all he could to mitigate the family’s ordeal, firstly by preaching an unusually long, almost incomprehensible sermon on the conversion of St Paul, and then by detaining Mr and Mrs Darcy as they left the church in so protracted a conversation that the waiting queue, impatient for their luncheon of cold meats, contented themselves with a curtsey or a bow before making for their carriage or barouche.

Lydia did not appear, and the Bingleys stayed at Pemberley both to attend her and to prepare for their return home that afternoon. After the disarray that Lydia had made of her garments since her arrival, arranging her gowns in the trunk to her satisfaction took considerably longer than did the packing of the Bingleys’ trunks. But all was finished by the time Darcy and Elizabeth returned for luncheon and by twenty minutes after two o’clock the Bingleys were settled in their coach. The final farewells were said and the coachman cracked the reins. The vehicle lurched into movement, then swayed down the broad path bordering the river, down the incline in the long drive and disappeared. Elizabeth stood looking after the coach as if she could conjure it back into sight, then the small group turned and re-entered the house.

In the hall Darcy paused, then said to Fitzwilliam and Alveston, “I would be grateful if you would join me in the library in half an hour. We are the three who found Denny’s body and we may all be required to give evidence at the inquest. Sir Selwyn sent a messenger after breakfast this morning to say that the coroner, Dr Jonah Makepeace, has ordered it for eleven o’clock on Wednesday. I want to be clear if our memories agree, particularly about what was said at the finding of Captain Denny’s body, and it might be useful to discuss generally how we should proceed in this matter. The memory of what we saw and heard is so bizarre, the moonlight so deceptive, that occasionally I have to remind myself that it was real.”

There was a murmur of acquiescence and almost exactly on time Colonel Fitzwilliam and Alveston made their way to the library where they found Darcy already in possession. There were three upright chairs set at the rectangular map table and two high buttoned armchairs, one each side of the fireplace. After a moment’s hesitation, Darcy gestured to the new arrivals to take those, then brought over a chair from the table and seated himself between them. It seemed to him that Alveston, sitting on the edge of his seat, was ill at ease, almost embarrassed, an emotion so at variance with his customary self-confidence that Darcy was surprised when Alveston spoke first, and to him.

“You will, of course, be calling in your own lawyer, sir, but if I can be of any help in the meantime, should he be at a distance, I am at your service. As a witness I cannot, of course, represent either Mr Wickham or the Pemberley estate, but if you feel I could be of use, I could impose on Mrs Bingley’s hospitality for a little longer. She and Mr Bingley have been kind enough to suggest that I should do so.”

He spoke hesitantly, the clever, successful, perhaps arrogant young lawyer transformed for a moment into an uncertain and awkward boy. Darcy knew why. Alveston feared that his offer might be interpreted, particularly by Colonel Fitzwilliam, as a ploy to further his cause with Georgiana. Darcy hesitated for only a few seconds, but it gave Alveston a chance quickly to continue.

“Colonel Fitzwilliam will have had experience of army courts martial and you may feel that any advice I could offer would be redundant, particularly as the colonel has local knowledge, which I lack.”

Darcy turned to Colonel Fitzwilliam. “I think you will agree, Fitzwilliam, that we should take any legal help available.”

The colonel said evenly, “I am not and have never been a magistrate, and I can hardly claim that my occasional experience of courts martial qualifies me to claim expertise in civil criminal law. As I am not related to George Wickham, as is Darcy, I can have no locus standi in this matter except as a witness. It is for Darcy to decide what advice would be useful. As he himself admits, it is difficult to see how Mr Alveston could be of use in the present matter.”

Darcy turned to Alveston. “It would seem an unnecessary waste of time to be riding daily between Highmarten and Pemberley. Mrs Darcy has spoken to her sister and we all hope that you will accept our invitation to remain here at Pemberley. Sir Selwyn Hardcastle may require you to defer your departure until the police investigation is finished although I hardly feel he would be justified after you have given evidence to the coroner. But will not your own practice suffer? You are reputed to be exceptionally busy. We should not accept help to your detriment.”

Alveston said, “I have no cases requiring my personal attendance for another eight days, and my experienced partner could keep routine matters running smoothly until then.”

“Then I would be grateful for your advice when you feel it is appropriate to give it. The lawyers who act for the Pemberley estate deal mostly with family matters, chiefly wills, the purchase and sale of property, local disputes, and have as far as I know little if any experience of murder, certainly not at Pemberley. I have already written to tell them what has happened and will now send another express to let them know of your involvement. I must warn you that Sir Selwyn Hardcastle is unlikely to be cooperative. He is an experienced and just magistrate, minutely interested in the detective processes normally left to the village constables and watchful always for any intrusion on his powers.”

The colonel made no further comment.

Alveston said, “It would be helpful – at least I would find it so – if we could first discuss our initial response to the crime, particularly having regard to the defendant’s apparent confession. Do we believe Wickham’s assertion that he meant by his words that if he hadn’t quarrelled with his friend, Denny would never have stepped out of the chaise to his death? Or did he follow Denny with murderous intent? It is largely a question of character. I have never known Mr Wickham but I understand that he is the son of your late father’s steward and that you knew him well as a boy. Do you, sir, and the colonel believe him capable of such an act?”

He looked at Darcy who, after a moment’s hesitation, replied, “Before his marriage to my wife’s younger sister we rarely met for many years and never afterwards. In the past I have found him ungrateful, envious, dishonest and deceitful. He has a handsome face and an agreeable manner in society, especially with ladies, which procure him general favour; whether this lasts on longer acquaintance is a different matter but I have never seen him violent or heard that he has been guilty of violence. His offences are of the meaner kind and I prefer not to discuss them; we all have the capacity to change. I can only say that I cannot believe that the Wickham I once knew, despite his faults, would be capable of the brutal murder of a former comrade and a friend. I would say that he was a man averse to violence and would avoid it when possible.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam said, “He confronted rebels in Ireland to some effect and his bravery has been recognised. We have to grant his physical courage.”

Alveston said, “No doubt if there is a choice between killing or being killed he would show ruthlessness. I do not mean to disparage his bravery, but surely war and a first-hand experience of the realities of battle could corrupt the sensitivities of even a normally peaceable man so that violence becomes less abhorrent? Should we not consider that possibility?”

Darcy saw that the colonel was having difficulty in controlling his temper. He said, “No man is corrupted by doing his duty to his King and country. If you had ever had experience of war, young man, I suggest you would be less disparaging in your reaction to acts of exceptional bravery.”

Darcy thought it wise to intervene. He said, “I read some of the accounts of the 1798 Irish rebellion in the paper, but they were only brief. I probably missed most of the reports. Wasn’t that when Wickham was wounded and earned a medal? What part exactly did he play?”

“He was involved, as was I, in the battle on 21st June at Enniscorthy when we stormed the hill and drove the rebels into retreat. Then, on 8th August, General Jean Humbert landed with a thousand French troops and marched south towards Castlebar. The French general encouraged his rebel allies to set up the so-called Republic of Connaught and on 27th August he routed General Lake at Castlebar, a humiliating defeat for the British Army. It was then that Lord Cornwallis requested reinforcements. Cornwallis kept his forces between the French invaders and Dublin, trapping Humbert between General Lake and himself. That was the end for the French. The British dragoons charged the Irish flank and the French lines, at which point Humbert surrendered. Wickham took part in that charge and was then engaged in rounding up the rebels and breaking up the Republic of Connaught. This was bloody work as rebels were hunted down and punished.”

It was obvious to Darcy that the colonel had given this detailed account many times before and took some pleasure doing so.

Alveston said, “And George Wickham was part of that? We know what was involved in putting down a rebellion. Would not that be enough to give a man, if not a taste for violence, at least a familiarity with it? After all, what we are trying to do here is to arrive at some conclusion about the kind of man George Wickham had become.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam said, “He had become a good and brave soldier. I agree with Darcy, I can’t see him as a murderer. Do we know how he and his wife have lived since he left the army in 1800?”

Darcy said, “He has never been admitted to Pemberley and we have never communicated, but Mrs Wickham is received at Highmarten. They have not prospered. Wickham became something of a national hero after the Irish campaign and that ensured that he was usually successful in obtaining employment, but not in keeping it. Apparently the couple went to Longbourn when Mr Wickham was unemployed and money was scarce, and no doubt Mrs Wickham enjoyed visiting old friends and boasting about her husband’s achievements, but the visits seldom lasted beyond three weeks. Someone must have been helping them financially, and on a regular basis, but Mrs Wickham never explained further, and nor, of course, did Mrs Bingley ask. I am afraid that is all I know, or indeed wish to know.”

Alveston said, “As I have never met Mr Wickham before Friday night, my opinion of his guilt or innocence is based not on his personality or record, but solely on my assessment of the evidence as it is so far available. I think he has an excellent defence. The so-called confession could mean nothing more than his guilt at provoking his friend to leave the chaise. He was in liquor, and that kind of maudlin sentimentality after a shock is not uncommon when a man is drunk. But let us look at the physical evidence. The central mystery of this case is why Captain Denny plunged into the woodland. What had he to fear from Wickham? Denny was the larger and stronger man and he was armed. If it was his intention to walk back to the inn, why not take the road? Admittedly the chaise could have overtaken him, but as I said, he was hardly in danger. Wickham would not have attacked him with Mrs Wickham in the chaise. It will probably be argued that Denny felt constrained to leave Wickham’s company, and immediately, because of disgust for his companion’s plan to leave Mrs Wickham at Pemberley without her having been invited to the ball, and without giving Mrs Darcy notice. The plan was certainly ill mannered and inconsiderate, but hardly warranted Denny’s escape from the chaise in such a dramatic manner. The woodland was dark and he had no light; I find his action incomprehensible.

“And there is stronger evidence. Where are the weapons? Surely there must be two. The first blow to the forehead produced little more than an effusion of blood which prevented Denny from seeing where he was and left him staggering. The wound on the back of the head was made with a different weapon, something heavy and smooth-edged, perhaps a stone. And from the account of those who have seen the wound, including you Mr Darcy, it is so deep and long that a superstitious man might well say that it was made by no human hand, certainly not by Wickham’s. I doubt whether he could easily have lifted a stone of that weight high enough to drop it precisely where aimed. And are we to suppose that by coincidence it lay conveniently close to hand? And there are those scratches on Wickham’s forehead and hands. They certainly suggest that he could have lost himself in the woodland after first coming across Captain Denny’s body.”

Colonel Fitzwilliam said, “So you think if it goes to the assize he will be acquitted?”

“I believe on the evidence so far that he should be, but there is always a risk in cases where no other suspect is in question that the jury will ask themselves, if he did not do it, who did? It is difficult for a judge or defence counsel to warn a jury against this view without at the same time putting it into their minds. Wickham will need a good lawyer.”

Darcy said, “That must be my responsibility.”

“I suggest that you try for Jeremiah Mickledore. He is brilliant with this kind of case and with a city jury, but he takes only cases in which he is interested and he hates leaving London.”

Darcy said, “Is there a chance that the case could be remitted to London? Otherwise it won’t be heard until it goes before the assize court at Derby next Lent or summer.” He looked at Alveston. “Remind me of the procedure.”

Alveston said, “Generally the state prefers defendants to be tried at the local assize town. The argument is that the people can themselves see that justice is done. If cases are removed, it is normally only as far as the next county assize court and there would have to be a good reason, something so serious that a fair trial could not be obtained in the local town, questions regarding fairness, jurors who might be nobbled, judges whom it was thought could be bribed. On the other hand there might be such local hostility to the defendant that it would prejudice a fair hearing. It is the attorney general who has powers to take control and terminate criminal prosecutions, which means for our purposes that trials can be moved elsewhere on his authority.”

Darcy said, “So it will be in the hands of Spencer Perceval?”

“Exactly. Perhaps it could be argued that since the crime was committed on the property of a local magistrate, he and his family might be unreasonably involved, or there could be local gossip and innuendo about the relationship between Pemberley and the accused which could hamper the cause of justice. I do not think it would be easy to get the case transferred, but the fact that Wickham is related both to you and to Mr Bingley by marriage would be a complicating factor which might weigh with the Attorney General. His decision will be made not on any personal wishes, but on whether a transfer will best serve the cause of justice. Wherever the trial is held, I think it would certainly be worth trying to get Jeremiah Mickledore for the defence. I was his junior some two years ago and I think I may have some influence with him. I suggest you send an express setting out the facts and I follow this by discussing the case with him when I return to London, as I must after the inquest.”

Darcy said he was grateful and the proposal was agreed. Then Alveston said, “I think, gentlemen, we should remind ourselves of the evidence we shall give when asked what words Wickham spoke when we came upon him kneeling over the body. They will undoubtedly be crucial to the case. Obviously we shall speak the truth but it will be interesting to know whether our memories agree on Wickham’s exact words.”

Without waiting for either of the other two to speak, Colonel Fitzwilliam said, “Not unnaturally they made a distinct impression on me and I believe I can repeat them exactly. Wickham said, “He’s dead. Oh God, Denny’s dead. He was my friend, my only friend, and I’ve killed him. It’s my fault.” It is, of course, a matter of opinion what he meant by Denny’s death being his fault.”

Alveston said, “My memory is precisely the same as the colonel’s but, like him, I can attempt no interpretation of his words. So far we agree.”

It was Darcy’s turn. He said, “I cannot myself be as precise as to the exact order of his words, but I can with confidence state that Wickham said that he had killed his friend, his only friend, and that it was his fault. I too find those last words ambiguous and shall not attempt to explain them unless pressed, and possibly not then.”

Alveston said, “We are unlikely to be pressed by the coroner. If the question is asked, he may point out that none of us can be sure of what is passing through another’s mind. My own view, and it is speculative, is that he meant that Denny would not have gone into the woods and met his assailant had it not been for their quarrel, and that Wickham took responsibility for whatever it was that aroused Denny’s repugnance. The case will undoubtedly rest on what Wickham meant by those few words.”

It seemed that the conference could now be considered over, but before they rose from their chairs, Darcy said, “So Wickham’s fate, life or death, will depend on twelve men influenced as they must be by their own prejudices and by the power of the accused’s statement and the prosecuting counsel’s eloquence.”

The colonel said, “How else can it be dealt with? He will put himself on his countrymen and there can be no greater assurance of justice than the verdict of twelve honest Englishmen.”

Darcy said, “And with no appeal.”

“How can there be? The decision of the jury has always been sacrosanct. What are you proposing, Darcy, a second jury, sworn in to agree or disagree with the first, and another jury after that? That would be the ultimate idiocy, and if carried on ad infinitum could presumably result in a foreign court trying English cases. And that would be the end of more than our legal system.”

Darcy said, “Could it not be possible to have an appeal court consisting of three, or perhaps five, judges to be convened if there were dissension over a difficult point of law?”

It was then that Alveston intervened. “I can well imagine the reaction of an English jury to the proposal that their decision should be challenged by three judges. It must be for the trial judge to decide on points of law, and if he is unable to do so, then he has no right to be a judge. And there is to some extent a court of appeal. The trial judge can initiate the process for the granting of a pardon when he is unhappy with the outcome and a verdict which seems to the general public to be unjust will always result in a public outcry and sometimes violent protest. I can assure you there is nothing more powerful than the English when seized with righteous indignation. But as you may know, I am a member of a group of lawyers concerned with examining the effectiveness of our legal criminal system and there is one reform which we would like to see: the right of the prosecuting counsel to make a final speech before the verdict should be extended to the defence. I can see no reason against such a change, and we are hopeful that it may come before the end of this century.”

Darcy asked, “What can be the objection to it?”

“Mostly time. The London courts are already overworked and too many cases are rushed through with indecent speed. The English are not so fond of lawyers that they wish to sit through hours of additional speeches. It is thought sufficient that the accused should speak for himself and that the cross-examination of prosecution witnesses by his defence counsel will be enough to ensure justice. I do not find these arguments entirely convincing but they are sincerely held.”

The colonel said, “You sound like a radical, Darcy. I had not realised that you had such an interest in the law or were so dedicated to its reform.”

“Nor had I, but when one is faced, as we are now, by the reality of what awaits George Wickham, and how narrow the gap between life and death, it is perhaps natural to be both interested and concerned.” He paused, then said, “If there is nothing else to be said, perhaps we can prepare to join the ladies for dinner.”

2

Tuesday morning promised to be a pleasant day with even the hope of autumn sunshine. Wilkinson, the coachman, had a well-deserved reputation for forecasting the weather and two days ago had prophesied that the wind and rain would be followed by some sun and occasional showers. It was the day when Darcy was to meet his steward, John Wooller, who would lunch at Pemberley, and in the afternoon he would ride to Lambton to see Wickham, a duty which he could be confident had no expectation of pleasure on either side.

While he was absent Elizabeth planned to visit Woodland Cottage with Georgiana and Mr Alveston, to enquire after Will’s health and to carry wine and delicacies, which she and Mrs Reynolds hoped might tempt his appetite. She also wanted to satisfy herself that his mother and sister had not been made worried about being left alone when Bidwell was working at Pemberley. Georgiana had been eager to accompany her, and Henry Alveston had immediately offered to provide the male escort which Darcy thought essential and which he knew both ladies would find reassuring. Elizabeth was anxious to start as soon as possible after an early luncheon; the autumn sunshine was a benison which could not be expected to last, and Darcy had insisted that the party leave the woodland before the afternoon light began to fade.

But first there were letters to be written and, after an early breakfast, she settled to give some hours to this task. There were still replies outstanding to letters of sympathy and enquiry from friends who had been invited to the ball, and she knew that the family at Longbourn, who had received the news from Darcy by express post, would expect almost daily bulletins. There were also Bingley’s sisters, Mrs Hurst and Miss Bingley, to be kept informed of progress, but here at least she could leave it to Bingley to write. They visited their brother and Jane twice a year but were so immersed in the delights of London that more than a month’s stay in the country was intolerable. While at Highmarten they condescended to be entertained at Pemberley. To be able to boast about their visits, their relationship with Mr Darcy and the splendours of his house and estate was too valuable an indulgence to be sacrificed to disappointed hopes or resentment, but actually to see Elizabeth in possession as mistress of Pemberley remained an affront which neither sister could tolerate without a painful exercise of self-control and, to Elizabeth’s relief, the visits were infrequent.

She knew that their brother would have tactfully discouraged them from visiting Pemberley during the present crisis and she had no doubt that they would stay away. A murder in the family can provide a frisson of excitement at fashionable dinner parties, but little social credit can be expected from the brutal despatch of an undistinguished captain of the infantry, without money or breeding to render him interesting. Since even the most fastidious among us can rarely escape hearing salacious local gossip, it is as well to enjoy what cannot be avoided, and it was generally known both in London and Derbyshire that Miss Bingley was particularly anxious at this time not to leave the capital. Her pursuit of a widowed peer of great wealth was entering a most hopeful phase. Admittedly without his peerage and his money he would have been regarded as the most boring man in London, but one cannot expect to be called “your grace” without some inconvenience, and the competition for his wealth, title and anything else he cared to bestow was understandably keen. There were a couple of avaricious mamas, long-experienced in the matrimonial stakes, each working assiduously on her daughter’s behalf, and Miss Bingley had no intention of leaving London at such a delicate stage of the competition.

Elizabeth had just finished letters to her family at Longbourn and to her Aunt Gardiner when Darcy arrived with a letter delivered the previous evening by express, which he had only recently opened.

Handing it to her, he said, “Lady Catherine, as expected, has passed on the news to Mr Collins and Charlotte and has enclosed their letters with her own. I cannot suppose that they will give you either pleasure or surprise. I shall be in the business room with John Wooller but hope to see you at luncheon before I set out for Lambton.”

Lady Catherine had written:

My dear Nephew

Your express, as you will have realised, came as a considerable shock but, happily, I can assure you and Elizabeth that I have not succumbed. Even so, I had to call in Dr Everidge who congratulated me on my fortitude. You can be assured that I am as well as can be expected. The death of this unfortunate young man – of whom, of course, I know nothing – will inevitably cause a national sensation which, given the importance of Pemberley, can hardly be avoided. Mr Wickham, whom the police have very properly arrested, seems to have a talent for causing trouble and embarrassment to respectable people and I cannot help feeling that your parents’ indulgence to him in childhood, about which I frequently expressed myself strongly to Lady Anne, has been responsible for many of his later delinquencies. However, I prefer to believe that of this enormity at least he is innocent and, as his disgraceful marriage to your wife’s sister has made him your brother, you will no doubt wish to make yourself responsible for the expense of his defence. Let us hope it does not ruin both you and your sons. You will need a good lawyer. On no account employ someone local; you will get a nonentity who will combine inefficiency with unreasonable expectations in regard to remuneration. I would offer my own Mr Pegworthy, but I require him here. The long-standing boundary dispute with my neighbour, of which I have spoken, is now reaching a critical stage and there has been a lamentable rise in poaching in the last months. I would come myself to give advice – Mr Pegworthy said that were I a man and had taken to the law, I would have been an ornament to the English bar – but I am needed here. If I went to all the people who would benefit from my advice I would never be at home. I suggest you employ a lawyer from the Inner Temple. They are said to be a gentlemanly lot in that Inn. Mention my name and you will be well attended.

I shall convey your news to Mr Collins since it cannot long be concealed. As a clergyman, he will wish to send his usual depressing words of comfort, and I shall enclose his letter with mine but will place an embargo on its length.

I send my sympathy to you and to Mrs Darcy. Do not hesitate to send for me if events should turn ill with this affair and I will brave the autumn mists to be with you.

Elizabeth expected to get nothing of interest from Mr Collins’s letter except the reprehensible pleasure of relishing his unique mixture of pomposity and folly. It was longer than she expected. Despite her proclamation, Lady Catherine de Bourgh had been indulgent about length. He began by stating that he could find no words to express his shock and abhorrence, and then proceeded to find a great number, few of them appropriate and none of them helpful. As with Lydia’s engagement, he ascribed the whole of this dreadful affair to the lack of control over their daughter by Mr and Mrs Bennet, and went on to congratulate himself on having withdrawn an offer of marriage which would have resulted in his being inescapably linked to their disgrace. He went on to prophesy a catalogue of disasters for the afflicted family ranging from the worst – Lady Catherine’s displeasure and their permanent banishment from Rosings – descending to public ignominy, bankruptcy and death. It closed by mentioning that, within a matter of months, his dear Charlotte would be presenting him with their fourth child. The Hunsford parsonage was becoming a little small for his increasing family, but he trusted that Providence, in due time, would provide him with a valuable living and a larger house. Elizabeth reflected that this was a clear appeal, and not the first, to Mr Darcy’s interest and would receive the same response. Providence had so far shown no inclination to help and Darcy certainly would not.

Charlotte’s letter, unsealed, was what Elizabeth had expected, no more than brief and conventional sentences of distress and condolence and the reassurance that the thoughts of both herself and her husband were with the afflicted family. Undoubtedly Mr Collins would have read the letter and nothing warmer or more intimate could be expected. Charlotte Lucas had been Elizabeth’s friend through the years of childhood and young womanhood, the only female except Jane with whom rational conversation had been possible, and Elizabeth still regretted that much of the confidence between them had subsided into general benevolence and a regular but not revealing correspondence. On Darcy’s and her two visits to Lady Catherine since their marriage, a formal visit to the parsonage had been necessary and Elizabeth, unwilling to expose her husband to Mr Collins’s presumptive civilities, had gone alone. She had tried to understand Charlotte’s acceptance of Mr Collins’s offer, made within a day of his proposal to her and her rejection, but it was unlikely that Charlotte had either forgotten or forgiven her friend’s first amazed response to the news.

Elizabeth suspected that on one occasion Charlotte had taken her revenge. Elizabeth had often wondered how Lady Catherine had learned that she and Mr Darcy were likely to become engaged. She had never spoken of his first disastrous proposal to anyone but Jane and had come to the conclusion that it must have been Charlotte who had betrayed her. She recollected that evening when Darcy, with the Bingleys, had first made an appearance in the Meryton Assembly Rooms when Charlotte had somehow suspected that he might be interested in her friend and had warned Elizabeth, in her preference for Wickham, not to slight a man of Darcy’s much greater importance. And then there had been Elizabeth’s visit to the parsonage with Sir William Lucas and his daughter. Charlotte herself had commented on the frequency of the visits of Mr Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam during the visitors’ stay and had said that it could only be a compliment to Elizabeth. And then there was the proposal itself. After Darcy had left, Elizabeth had walked alone to try to quieten her confusion and anger but Charlotte, on her return, must have seen that something untoward had happened during her absence.

No, it was impossible for anyone other than Charlotte to have guessed the cause of her distress, and Charlotte, in a moment of conjugal mischief, had passed on her suspicions to Mr Collins. He, of course, would have lost no time in warning Lady Catherine and had probably exaggerated the danger, making suspicion into certainty. His motives were curiously mixed. If the marriage took place he might have hoped to benefit from such a close relationship with the wealthy Mr Darcy; what livings might not be within his power to bestow? But prudence and revenge had probably been more powerful and sweeter motives. He had never forgiven Elizabeth for refusing him. Her punishment should have been a lonely indigent spinsterhood, not a glittering marriage which even an earl’s daughter would not have scorned. Had not Lady Anne married Darcy’s father? Charlotte, too, might have had cause for a more justified resentment. She was convinced, as was the whole of Meryton, that Elizabeth hated Darcy; she, her only friend, who had been critical of Charlotte’s own marriage based on prudence and the need for a home, had herself accepted a man she was known to detest because she could not resist the prize of Pemberley. It is never so difficult to congratulate a friend on her good fortune than when that fortune appears undeserved.

Charlotte’s marriage could be regarded as a success, as perhaps all marriages are when each of the couple gets exactly what the union promised. Mr Collins had a competent wife and housekeeper, a mother for his children and the approval of his patroness, while Charlotte took the only course by which a single woman of no beauty and small fortune could hope to gain independence. Elizabeth remembered how Jane, kind and tolerant as always, had cautioned her not to blame Charlotte for her engagement without remembering what it was she was leaving. Elizabeth had never liked the Lucas boys. Even in youth they had been boisterous, unkind and unprepossessing and she had no doubt that, as adults, they would have despised and resented a spinster sister, seeing her as an embarrassment and an expense, and would have made their feelings known. From the start Charlotte had managed her husband with the same skill as she did her servants and her chicken houses, and Elizabeth, on her first visit to Hunsford with Sir William and his daughter, had seen evidence of Charlotte’s arrangements to minimise the disadvantage of her situation. Mr Collins had been assigned a room at the front of the rectory where the prospect of viewing passers-by, including the possibility of Lady Catherine in her carriage, kept him happily seated at the window while most of his free daytime hours, with her encouragement, were spent gardening, an activity for which he displayed enthusiasm and talent. To tend the soil is generally regarded as a virtuous activity and to see a gardener diligently at work invariably provokes a surge of sympathetic approval, if only at the prospect of freshly dug potatoes and early peas. Elizabeth suspected that Mr Collins had never been so acceptable a husband as when Charlotte saw him, at a distance, bent over his vegetable patch.

Charlotte had not been the eldest of a large family without acquiring some skill in the management of male delinquencies and her method with her husband was ingenious. She consistently congratulated him on qualities he did not possess in the hope that, flattered by her praise and approval, he would acquire them. Elizabeth had seen the system in operation when, at Charlotte’s urgent entreaty, she had paid a short visit on her own some eighteen months after her marriage. The party was being driven back to the vicarage in one of Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s carriages when the discussion turned to a fellow guest, a recently inducted clergyman from an adjoining parish who was a distant relation of Lady Catherine’s.

Charlotte had said, “Mr Thompson is no doubt an excellent young man, but he is too much a prattler for my liking. To praise every dish was unnecessarily fulsome and made him seem greedy. And once or twice, when in full flow of speech, I could see that Lady Catherine did not much like it. It is a pity he didn’t take you, my love, as his example. He would then have said less, and that more to the point.”

Mr Collins’s mind was not subtle enough to detect the irony or suspect the stratagem. His vanity grasped at the compliment and, at their next dinner engagement at Rosings, he sat for most of the meal in such unnatural silence that Elizabeth was fearful that Lady Catherine would sharply tap her spoon on the table and enquire why he had so little to say for himself.

For the last ten minutes Elizabeth had laid down her pen and had let her mind wander back to the Longbourn days, to Charlotte and their long friendship. Now it was time to put away her papers and see what Mrs Reynolds had prepared for the Bidwells. Making her way to the housekeeper’s room she remembered how Lady Catherine, on one of her visits the previous year, had accompanied Elizabeth in taking to Woodland Cottage nourishment suitable for a seriously ill man. Lady Catherine had not been invited to enter the sick room and had shown no disposition to do so, merely saying on the way back, “Dr McFee’s diagnosis should be regarded as highly suspect. I have never approved of protracted dying. It is an affectation in the aristocracy; in the lower classes it is merely an excuse for avoiding work. The blacksmith’s second son has been reputedly dying for the last four years, yet when I drive past I see him assisting his father with every appearance of being in robust health. The de Bourghs have never gone in for prolonged dying. People should make up their minds whether to live or to die and do one or the other with the least inconvenience to others.”

Elizabeth had been too shocked and surprised to comment. How could Lady Catherine speak so calmly of protracted dying just three years after she had lost her only child following years of ill health? But after the first effusion of grief, controlled but surely genuine, Lady Catherine had regained her equanimity – and with it much of her previous intolerance – with remarkable speed. Miss de Bourgh, a delicate, plain and silent girl, had made a negligible impact on the world while she lived and even less in dying. Elizabeth, then herself a mother, had done everything she could by warm invitations to visit Pemberley and by herself going to Rosings to support Lady Catherine in the first weeks of mourning, and both the offer and this sympathy, which perhaps the mother had not expected, had done its work. Lady Catherine was essentially the same woman that she had always been, but now the shades of Pemberley were less polluted when Elizabeth took her daily exercise under the trees, and Lady Catherine became fonder of visiting Pemberley than either Darcy or Elizabeth were anxious to receive her.

3

With each day there were duties to be attended to and Elizabeth found in her responsibility to Pemberley, her family and her servants at least an antidote to the worst horror of her imaginings. Today was one of duty both for her husband and for herself. She knew that she could no longer delay visiting Woodland Cottage. The shots in the night, the knowledge that a brutal murder had taken place within a hundred yards of the cottage and while Bidwell was at Pemberley must have left Mrs Bidwell with a legacy of pity and horror to add to her already heavy load of grief. Elizabeth knew that Darcy had visited the cottage last Thursday to suggest that Bidwell should be released from his duties on the eve of the ball so that he could be with his family at this difficult time, but both husband and wife had been adamant that this was not necessary and Darcy had seen that his persistence had only distressed them. Bidwell would always resist any suggestion that could carry the implication that he was not indispensable, even temporarily, to Pemberley and its master; since relinquishing his status as head coachman he had always cleaned the silver on the night before Lady Anne’s ball and in his view there was no one else at Pemberley who could be trusted with the task.

During the past year, when young Will had grown weaker and hope of recovery gradually faded, Elizabeth had been regular in her visits to Woodland Cottage, at first being admitted to the small bedroom at the front of the cottage where the patient lay. Recently she had become aware that her appearance with Mrs Bidwell at his bedside was more of an embarrassment to him than a pleasure, could indeed be seen as an imposition, and she had remained in the sitting room giving what comfort she could to the stricken mother. When the Bingleys were staying at Pemberley, Jane would invariably accompany her together with Bingley, and she realised again how much she would today miss her sister’s presence and what a comfort it had always been to have with her a dearly loved companion to whom she could confide even her darkest thoughts, and whose goodness and gentleness lightened every distress. In the absence of Jane, Georgiana and one of the upper servants had accompanied her, but Georgiana, sensitive to the possibility that Mrs Bidwell might find it a greater comfort to confide confidentially in Mrs Darcy, had usually paid her respects briefly and then sat outside on a wooden bench made some time ago by young Will. Darcy accompanied her rarely on these routine visits since the taking of a basket of delicacies provided by the Pemberley cook was seen as essentially women’s work. Today, apart from the visit to Wickham, he was reluctant to leave Pemberley in case there were developments needing his attention, and it was agreed at breakfast that a servant would accompany Elizabeth and Georgiana. It was then that Alveston, speaking to Darcy, said quietly that it would be a privilege to accompany Mrs Darcy and Miss Georgiana if the suggestion were agreeable to them, and it was accepted with gratitude. Elizabeth glanced quickly at Georgiana and saw the look of joy, swiftly suppressed, which made her response to the proposal only too evident.

Elizabeth and Georgiana were driven to the woods in a landaulet, while Alveston rode his horse, Pompey, at their side. An early mist had cleared after a rain-free night and it was a glorious morning, cold but sunlit, the air sweet with the familiar tang of autumn – leaves, fresh earth and the faint smell of burning wood. Even the horses seemed to rejoice in the day, tossing their heads and straining at the bit. The wind had died but the detritus of the storm lay in swathes over the path, the dry leaves crackling under the wheels or tumbling and spinning in their wake. The trees were not yet bare, and the rich red and gold of autumn seemed intensified under the cerulean sky. On such a day it was impossible for her heart not to be lifted and for the first time since waking Elizabeth felt a small surge of hope. To an onlooker, she thought, the party must look as if they were on their way to a picnic – the tossing manes, the coachman in his livery, the basket of provisions, the handsome young man riding at their side. When they entered the wood the dark overreaching boughs, which at dusk had the crude strength of a prison roof, now let in shafts of sunlight which lay on the leaf-strewn path and transformed the dark green of the bushes into the liveliness of spring.

The landaulet drew to a stop and the coachman was given orders to return in precisely one hour, then the three of them, with Alveston leading Pompey and carrying the basket, walked between the gleaming trunks of the trees and down the trodden pathway to the cottage. The food was not brought as an act of charity – no member of the staff at Pemberley was without shelter, food or clothing – but they were the extras which the cook would contrive in the kitchens in the hope of tempting Will’s appetite: consommés prepared with the best beef and laced with sherry, made to the recipe devised by Dr McFee, small savoury tartlets which melted in the mouth, fruit jellies and ripe peaches and pears from the glasshouse. Even these now could rarely be tolerated, but they were received with gratitude and if Will could not eat them, his mother and sister undoubtedly would.

Despite the softness of their footsteps, Mrs Bidwell must have heard them for she stood at the door to welcome them in. She was a slight, thin woman whose face, like a faded watercolour, still evoked the fragile prettiness and promise of youth but now anxiety and the strain of waiting for her son to die had made her an old woman. Elizabeth introduced Alveston who, without directly speaking of Will, managed to convey a genuine sympathy, said what a pleasure it was to meet her and suggested that he should wait for Mrs and Miss Darcy on the wooden bench outside.

Mrs Bidwell said, “It was made by my son, William, sir, and finished the week before he was took ill. He was a clever carpenter, as you can see, sir, and liked designing and making pieces of furniture. Mrs Darcy has a nursery chair – have you not, madam? – which Will made the Christmas after Master Fitzwilliam was born.”

“Yes indeed,” said Elizabeth. “We value it greatly and we always think of Will when the children clamber over it.”

Alveston made his bow, then went out and seated himself on the bench which was on the edge of the woodland and just visible from the cottage, while Elizabeth and Georgiana took their proffered seats in the living room. It was simply furnished with a central oblong table and four chairs, a more comfortable chair each side of the fireplace and a wide mantelpiece crowded with family mementoes. The window at the front was slightly open but the room was still too hot, and although Will Bidwell’s bedroom was upstairs, the whole cottage seemed permeated with the sour smell of long illness. Close to the window was a cot on rockers with a nursing chair beside it and, at Mrs Bidwell’s invitation, Elizabeth went over to peer down at the sleeping child and congratulate his grandmother on the health and beauty of the new arrival. There was no sign of Louisa. Georgiana knew that Mrs Bidwell would welcome the opportunity of talking alone to Elizabeth, and after making enquiries after Will and admiring the baby, accepted Elizabeth’s suggestion, which had already been agreed between them, that she should join Alveston outside. The wicker basket was soon emptied, the contents gratefully received, and the two women settled themselves in the chairs beside the fire.

Mrs Bidwell said, “There is not much he can keep down now, madam, but he does like that thin beef soup and I try him with some of the custards and, of course, the wine. It is good of you to call, madam, but I won’t ask you to see him. It will only distress you and he hasn’t the strength to say much.”

Elizabeth said, “Dr McFee sees him regularly, does he not? Is he able to provide some relief?”

“He comes every other day, madam, busy as he is, and never a penny charged. He says Will has not long to go now. Oh madam, you knew my dear boy when you first arrived here as Mrs Darcy. Why should this happen to him, madam? If there was a reason or a purpose maybe I could bear it.”

Elizabeth put out her hand. She said gently, “That is a question we always ask and we get no answer. Does Reverend Oliphant visit you? He said something after church on Sunday about coming to see Will.”

“Oh indeed he does, madam, and he is a comfort, to be sure. But Will has asked me not to send him in recently, so I make excuses, I hope without offence.”

Elizabeth said, “I’m sure there would be no offence, Mrs Bidwell. Mr Oliphant is a sensitive and understanding man. Mr Darcy has great confidence in him.”

“So have we all, madam.”

For a few minutes they were silent, then Mrs Bidwell said, “I have not spoken of the death of that poor young man, madam. It upset Will terribly that such a thing should happen in the woods so close to home and he unable to protect us.”

Elizabeth said, “But you were not in danger I hope, Mrs Bidwell. I was told that you had heard nothing.”

“Nor had we, madam, except the pistol shots, but it brought home to Will how helpless he is and what a burden his father has to bear. But this tragedy is terrible for you and for the master, I know, and I should best not speak about matters of which I know nothing.”

“But you did know Mr Wickham as a child?”

“Indeed, madam. He and the young master used to play together in the woodland. They were boisterous like all young boys, but the young master was the quieter of the two. I know that Mr Wickham grew up very wild and was a grief to the master, but he has never been spoken of since your marriage, and no doubt it’s for the best. But I cannot believe that the boy I knew grew up to be a murderer.”

For a minute they sat in silence. There was a sensitive proposal which Elizabeth had come to make and was wondering how best to introduce. She and Darcy were concerned that, since the attack, the Bidwells would feel at risk, isolated as they were in Woodland Cottage, particularly with a seriously ill boy in the house and Bidwell himself so often at Pemberley. It would be reasonable that they should feel nervous and Elizabeth and Darcy had agreed that she should suggest to Mrs Bidwell that the whole family move into Pemberley, at least until the mystery had been solved. Whether this was practicable would, of course, depend on whether Will could stand the journey, but he would be carried very carefully by stretcher all the way to avoid the jolting of a carriage, and would receive devoted care once he was settled in a quiet room at Pemberley. But when Elizabeth put forward this proposal, she was startled by Mrs Bidwell’s response. For the first time the woman looked genuinely frightened and it was almost with a look of horror that she responded.

“Oh no, madam! Please don’t ask this of us. Will couldn’t be happy away from the cottage. We have no fear here. Even with Bidwell absent, Louise and I were not afeared. After Colonel Fitzwilliam was good enough to check that we were all right, we did as he instructed. I bolted the door and locked the downstairs windows, and no one came near. It was just a poacher, madam, taken unawares and acting on impulse, he had no quarrel with us. And I’m sure that Dr McFee would say that Will couldn’t stand the journey. Please tell Mr Darcy with our gratitude and compliments that it must not be thought of.”

Her eyes, her outstretched hands, were a plea. Elizabeth said gently, “Nor shall it be, if that is your wish, but we can at least ensure that your husband is here most of the time. We shall miss him greatly, but others can manage his work while Will is so ill and requires your care.”

“He won’t do it, madam. It will grieve him to think that others can take over.”

Elizabeth was tempted to say that, that being so, he would have to grieve, but she sensed that there was something here more serious than Bidwell’s desire to feel perpetually needed. She would leave the question for the moment; no doubt Mrs Bidwell would discuss it with her husband and perhaps change her mind. And she was, of course, right; if Dr McFee was of the opinion that Will could not stand the journey it would be folly to attempt it.

They had made their goodbyes and were rising together when two chubby feet appeared above the rim of the cot, and the baby began to wail. With an anxious upward glance towards her son’s room, Mrs Bidwell was at the cot’s side and gathering the child into her arms. At that moment there were footsteps on the stair and Louisa Bidwell came down. For a moment Elizabeth failed to recognise the girl who, since she had been visiting the cottage as chatelaine of Pemberley, had been the picture of health and happy girlhood, pink-cheeked, clear-eyed and fresh as a spring morning in her newly ironed working clothes. Now she looked ten years older, pale and drawn, her uncombed hair pulled back from a face lined with tiredness and worry, her working dress stained with milk. She gave a quick bob to Elizabeth then, without speaking, almost grabbed the child from her mother and said, “I’ll take him to the kitchen in case he wakes Will. I’ll put on the milk, Mother, for his feed, and some of that fine gruel. I’ll try him with that.”

And then she was gone. Elizabeth, to break the silence, said, “It must be a joy to have a new grandchild here, but also a responsibility. How long will he be staying? I expect his mother will want him back.”

“She will indeed, madam. It was a great pleasure for Will to see the new baby, but he doesn’t like to hear the child wailing, although it’s no more than natural if a baby is hungry.”

“When will he be going home?” Elizabeth asked.

“Next week, madam. My elder daughter’s husband, Michael Simpkins – a good man, as you know madam – will meet them off the post-chaise at Birmingham, and take him home. We are waiting to hear which day will be convenient for him. He is a busy man and it isn’t easy for him to leave the shop but he and my daughter are anxious to have Georgie back home.” It was impossible to miss the tension in her voice.

Elizabeth realised that it was time to leave. She said her goodbyes, listened again to Mrs Bidwell’s thanks and immediately the door to Woodland Cottage closed behind her. Her spirits were depressed by the obvious unhappiness she had seen, and her mind confused. Why had the suggestion that the Bidwells should move to Pemberley been received with such distress? Had it perhaps been tactless, an unspoken implication that the dying boy would receive better care at Pemberley than a loving mother could give him in his home? Nothing could have been further from her intention. Had Mrs Bidwell genuinely felt the journey would kill her son, but was that really a risk when he would be carried, well wrapped, on a stretcher and attended every inch of the journey by Dr McFee? Nothing else had been envisaged. Mrs Bidwell had seemed more distressed by the thought of a move than she was by the possible presence of a murderer stalking the woods. And Elizabeth felt a suspicion, almost amounting to a certainty, which she could not discuss with her companions, which indeed she doubted whether it would be right to voice to anyone. She thought again how much she wished Jane were still at Pemberley; but it was right that the Bingleys should have left. Jane’s place was with her children and Lydia would be closer to the local gaol where she could at least visit her husband. Elizabeth’s feelings were complicated by the acknowledgement that Pemberley was a less distressing place without Lydia’s violent swings of mood and continual complaints and lamentations.

For a moment, immersed in this jumble of thoughts and emotions, she had paid little attention to her two companions. Now she saw that they had been walking together on the fringes of the glade and were looking at her as if wondering when she would make a move. She shook off her preoccupations and joined them. Taking out her watch, she said, “We have twenty minutes before the landaulet comes back. Now that we have the sunshine, however brief, shall we sit for a while before we go back?”

The bench faced away from the cottage towards a distant slope down to the river. Elizabeth and Georgiana seated themselves at one end and Alveston at the other, his legs stretched out before him, his hands clasped behind his head. Now that the autumn winds had stripped many of the trees it was just possible to see in the far distance the thin gleaming line which separated the river from the sky. Was it perhaps this glimpse of the water which had caused Georgiana’s great-grandfather to choose this spot? The original bench had long gone, but the new one made by Will was sturdy and not uncomfortable. Beside it, as a half-shield, were a tangle of bushes with red berries and a shrub whose name Elizabeth could not remember, with tough leaves and white blossoms.

After a few minutes Alveston turned to Georgiana. “Did your great-grandfather live here all the time, or was it an occasional retreat from the business of the great house?”

“Oh, all the time. He had the cottage built and then moved in without a servant or anyone to cook. Food would be left from time to time, but he and the dog, Soldier, wanted no one but each other. His life was a great scandal at the time, and even the family were unsympathetic. It seemed an abdication of responsibility for a Darcy to live anywhere other than Pemberley. And then, when Soldier became old and ill, Great-Grandfather shot him and then himself. He left a note saying that they were to be buried together in the same grave in the woodland, and there is a tombstone and a grave, but only for Soldier. The family were horrified by the thought that a Darcy would want to lie in unconsecrated ground and you can imagine what the parish clergyman thought of it. So Great-Grandfather is in the family plot and Soldier is in the woods. I always felt sorry for Great-Grandfather and, when I was a child, I would go with my governess and lay some blossoms or berries on the grave. It was just a childish imagining that Great-Grandfather was there with Soldier. But when my mother found out what was happening the governess was dismissed and I was told the woodland was out of bounds.”

Elizabeth said, “For you, but not for your brother.”

“No, not for Fitzwilliam. But he is ten years older than I and was grown up when I was a child, and I don’t think he felt the same about Great-Grandfather as I did.”

There was a silence, then Alveston said, “Is the grave still there? You could take some flowers now, if you wish, now you are no longer a child.”

It seemed to Elizabeth that the words had a deeper implication than a visit to a dog’s grave.

Georgiana said, “I should like that. I have not visited the grave since I was aged eleven. I would like to see if anything has changed, but I cannot believe that it could. I know the way and it is not far from the path, so we shall not be late for the landaulet.”

They set off, Georgiana indicating the way and Alveston, with Pompey, walking a little in front to stamp down the nettles and hold any impeding branches out of their path. Georgiana was carrying a small posy which Alveston had plucked for her. It was surprising how much brightness, how many memories of spring, those few gatherings from a sunlit October day could provide. He had found a spray of white autumn blossom on tough stems, some berries, richly red but not yet ready to fall, and one or two leaves veined with gold. No one spoke. Elizabeth, her mind already preoccupied with a tangle of worries, wondered if this short expedition was wise, without quite knowing in what way it could be thought inadvisable. It was a day in which any event out of the commonplace seemed mired in apprehension and potential danger.

It was then that she began to notice that the path must have been trodden in the recent past. In places the frailer branches and twigs had broken away, and at one point where the ground sloped slightly and the leaves were mushy she thought there were signs that they had been pressed down by a heavy foot. She wondered whether Alveston had noticed, but he said nothing and, within a few more minutes, they broke free of the undergrowth and found themselves in a small glade surrounded by beech trees. In the middle was a granite gravestone about two feet high with a slightly curved top. There was no raised grave and the stone, now gleaming in the frail sunlight, looked as if it had broken spontaneously through the earth. They read the engraved words in silence. Soldier. Faithful unto death. Died here with his master, 3rd November 1735.

Still without speaking, Georgiana approached to place her posy at the foot of the gravestone. As they stood for a moment regarding it, she said, “Poor Great-Grandfather. I wish I had known him. No one ever talked about him when I was a child, even the people who could remember him. He was the family failure, the Darcy who dishonoured his name because he put private happiness before public responsibilities. But I shall not visit the grave again. After all, his body is not here; it was just a childish fantasy that he might somehow know that I cared about him. I hope he was happy in his solitude. At least he managed to escape.”

Escape from what? thought Elizabeth. And now she was anxious to return to the landaulet. She said, “I think it is time we went home. Mr Darcy may soon be back from the prison and will be concerned if we are still in the woodland.”

They made their way down the narrow leaf-strewn path to join the lane where the landaulet would be waiting. Although they had been in the woodland for less than an hour, the bright promise of the afternoon had already faded and Elizabeth, who had never enjoyed walking in confined spaces, felt the shrubs and trees pressing on her like a physical weight. The smell of sickness was still in her nostrils, and her heart was oppressed by Mrs Bidwell’s unhappiness and the loss of all hope for Will. When the main path was reached they walked together when the width permitted and, when it narrowed, Alveston took the lead and walked with Pompey a few feet ahead, looking at the ground and then from left to right as if in search of clues. Elizabeth knew that he would prefer to take Georgiana on his arm but would not let either lady walk alone. Georgiana, too, was silent, perhaps oppressed by the same feeling of foreboding and menace.

Suddenly Alveston stopped and moved quickly to an oak tree. Something had obviously caught his eye. They joined him and saw on its bark the letters F. D—Y carved about four feet from the ground.

Looking around, Georgiana said, “Is there not a similar carving on that holly tree?”

A quick examination confirmed that there were indeed initials carved on two other trunks. Alveston said, “It does not seem like the usual carving of a lover. With lovers the initials are all that is necessary. Whoever carved these was anxious that there should be no doubt that the initials stand for Fitzwilliam Darcy.”

Elizabeth said, “I wonder when it was cut. It looks quite recent to me.”

Alveston said, “It was certainly done within the last month, and by two people. The F and the D are quite shallow and could have been made by a woman, but the dash that follows, and the Y are cut really deeply, almost certainly by a sharper implement.”

Elizabeth said, “I do not believe that any sweetheart carved this memento. I think it was cut by an enemy and the intention was malignant. It was carved in hatred not in love.”

As soon as she had spoken she wondered whether she had been unwise to worry Georgiana, but Alveston said, “I suppose it is possible that the initials stand for Denny. Do we know his Christian name?”

Elizabeth tried to remember if she had ever heard it at Meryton, and finally said, “I think he was Martin, or perhaps Matthew, but I suppose the police will know. They must have been in touch with his relatives, if he had any. But Denny has never been in these woods before Friday as far as I know, and certainly he has never visited Pemberley.”

Alveston turned to go. He said, “We will report it when we get back to the house and the police will have to be told. If the constables made the thorough search they should have made, they may already have seen the carving and reached some conclusion about its meaning. In the meantime I hope neither of you will worry too much. It could be a piece of mischief intending no particular harm; perhaps a lovesick girl from one of the cottages or a servant engaged in a foolish but harmless piece of foolery.”

But Elizabeth was not convinced. Without speaking she walked away from the tree and Georgiana and Alveston followed her example. It was in a silence which none of them was disposed to break that Elizabeth and Georgiana followed Alveston down the woodland path to the waiting landaulet. Elizabeth’s sombre mood seemed to have infected her companions and when Alveston had handed the ladies into the carriage he closed the door, mounted his horse and they turned towards home.

4

The local prison at Lambton, unlike the county one at Derby, was more intimidating from the outside than it was within, presumably having been built on the belief that public money was better saved by discouraging would-be offenders than by disheartening them once they were incarcerated. The prison was not unknown to Darcy, who had occasionally visited in his capacity of magistrate, notably on one occasion eight years previously when a mentally disturbed inmate had hanged himself in his cell and the chief gaoler had called the only magistrate then available to view the body. It had been such a distressing experience that it had left Darcy with a permanent horror of hanging and he never visited the gaol without a vivid memory of that dangling body and the stretched neck. Today it was a more than usually potent vision. The keeper of the gaol and his assistant were humane men and although none of the cells could be called spacious, there was no active ill treatment, and prisoners who could pay well for food and drink to be brought in could entertain visitors in some comfort and had little of which to complain.

Since Hardcastle had strongly advised that it would be unwise for Darcy to meet Wickham before the inquest had been held, Bingley, with his usual good nature, volunteered for the task and he had visited on Monday morning, when the prisoner’s immediate necessities had been dealt with and enough money passed to ensure that he could purchase the food and other comforts which could help make imprisonment bearable. But, after further thought, Darcy had decided that he had a duty to visit Wickham, at least once before the inquest. Not to do so would be taken throughout Lambton and Pemberley village to be a clear sign that he believed his brother-in-law to be guilty, and it was from the Lambton and Pemberley parishes that the inquest jury would be drawn. He might have no choice about being called as a witness for the prosecution, but at least he could demonstrate quietly that he believed Wickham to be innocent. There was, too, a more private concern: he was deeply concerned that there should be no open conjecture about the reason for the family estrangement which might put the matter of Georgiana’s proposed elopement at risk of discovery. It was both just and expected that he should go to the prison.

Bingley had reported that he had found Wickham sullen, uncooperative and prone to burst out in incivilities against the magistrate and the police, demanding that their efforts be redoubled to discover who had murdered his chief – indeed his only – friend. Why did he languish in gaol while the guilty went unsought? Why did the police keep interrupting his rest to harass him with stupid and unnecessary questions? Why had they asked why he had turned Denny over? To see his face, of course, it was a perfectly natural action. No, he had not noticed the wound on Denny’s head, it was probably covered by his hair and, anyway, he was too distressed to notice details. And what, he was asked, had he been doing in the time between the shots being heard and the finding of Denny’s body by the search party? He was stumbling through the woodland trying to catch a murderer, and that was what they should be doing, not wasting time pestering an innocent man.

Today Darcy found a very different man. Now, in fresh clothes, shaved and his hair combed, Wickham received him as if in his own home, bestowing a favour on a not particularly welcome visitor. Darcy remembered that he had always been a creature of moods and now he recognised the old Wickham, handsome, confident and more inclined to relish his notoriety than to see it as a disgrace. Bingley had brought the articles for which he had asked: tobacco, several shirts and cravats, slippers, savoury pies baked at Highmarten to augment the food purchased for him from the local bakery, and ink and paper with which Wickham proposed to write an account both of his part in the Irish campaign and of the deep injustice of his present imprisonment, a personal record which he was confident would find a ready market. Neither man spoke of the past. Darcy could not rid himself of its power but Wickham lived for the moment, was sanguine about the future and reinvented the past to suit his audience, and Darcy could almost believe that, for the present, he had put the worst of it completely out of his mind.

Wickham said that the Bingleys had brought Lydia from Highmarten to visit him the previous evening but she had been so uncontrolled in her complaints and weeping that he had found the occasion too dispiriting to be tolerated and had instructed that in future she should be admitted only at his request and for fifteen minutes. He was hopeful, however, that no further visit would be necessary; the inquest had been fixed for Wednesday at eleven o’clock and he was confident that he would then be released, after which he envisaged the triumphant return of Lydia and himself to Longbourn and the congratulations of his former friends at Meryton. No mention was made of Pemberley, perhaps because even in his euphoria he hardly expected to be welcomed there, nor wished to be. No doubt, thought Darcy, in the happy event of his release, he would first join Lydia at Highmarten before travelling on to Hertfordshire. It seemed unjust that Jane and Bingley should be burdened with Lydia’s presence even for a further day, but all that could be decided if his release indeed took place. He wished he could share Wickham’s confidence.

He stayed only for half an hour, was provided with a list of requirements to be brought the next day, and left with Wickham’s request that his compliments should be paid to Mrs Darcy and to Miss Darcy. Leaving, he reflected that it was a relief to find Wickham no longer sunk in pessimism and incrimination, but the visit had been uncomfortable for him and singularly depressing.

He knew, and with bitterness, that if the trial went well he would have to support Wickham and Lydia, at least for the foreseeable future. Their spending had always exceeded their income, and he guessed that they had depended on private subventions from Elizabeth and Jane to augment an inadequate income. Jane occasionally still invited Lydia to Highmarten while Wickham, loudly complaining in private, amused himself by staying in a variety of local inns, and it was from Jane that Elizabeth had news of the couple. None of the temporary jobs Wickham had taken since resigning his commission had been a success. His latest attempt to earn a competence had been with Sir Walter Elliot, a baronet who had been forced by extravagance to rent his house to strangers and had moved to Bath with two of his daughters. The younger, Anne, had since made a prosperous and happy marriage with a naval captain, now a distinguished admiral, but the elder, Elizabeth, had still to find a husband. The baronet, disenchanted with Bath, had decided that he was now sufficiently prosperous to return home, gave his tenant notice and had employed Wickham as a secretary to assist with the necessary work occasioned by the move. Wickham had been dismissed within six months. When faced with depressing news of public discord or, worse, of family disagreements it was always Jane’s reconciling task to find no party greatly at fault. But when the facts of Wickham’s latest failure were passed on to her more sceptical sister, Elizabeth suspected that Miss Elliot had been worried by her father’s response to Lydia’s open flirtation, while Wickham’s attempt to ingratiate himself with her had been met, at first with some encouragement born of boredom and vanity, finally with disgust.

Once away from Lambton, it was good to take deep breaths of cool fresh-smelling air, to be free of the unmistakable prison smell of bodies, food and cheap soap and the clank of turning keys, and it was with a surge of relief and a sense that he himself had escaped from durance that Darcy turned his horse’s head towards Pemberley.

5

Pemberley was as quiet as if it were uninhabited, and it was apparent that Elizabeth and Georgiana had not yet returned. He had hardly dismounted when one of the stable boys came round the corner of the house to take his horse, but he must have returned earlier than expected and there was no one waiting at the door. He entered the silent hall and made for the library where he thought it likely that he would find the colonel impatient for news. But to his surprise he discovered Mr Bennet there alone, ensconced in a high-backed chair by the fire, reading the Edinburgh Review. It was clear from the empty cup and soiled plate on a small table at his side that he had been provided with refreshment after his journey. After a second’s pause, occasioned by surprise, Darcy realised that he was exceedingly glad to see this unexpected visitor, and as Mr Bennet rose from his chair, shook hands with him warmly.

“Please don’t disturb yourself, sir. It is a great pleasure to see you. I hope you have been attended?”

“As you see. Stoughton has been his usual efficient self and I have met Colonel Fitzwilliam. After greeting me he said he would take advantage of my arrival to exercise his horse; I had the impression that he was finding confinement to the house a little tedious. I have also been welcomed by the estimable Mrs Reynolds who assures me that my usual room is always kept ready.”

“When did you arrive, sir?”

“About forty minutes ago. I hired a chaise. That is not the most comfortable way to travel far and I had it in mind to come by coach. Mrs Bennet, however, complained that she needs it to convey the most recent news of Wickham’s unfortunate situation to Mrs Philips, the Lucases and the many other interested parties in Meryton. To use a hack-chaise would be demeaning, not only to her but to the whole family. Having proposed to abandon her at this distressing time I could not deprive her of a more valued comfort; Mrs Bennet has the coach. I have no wish to cause additional work by this unannounced arrival but I thought you might be glad to have another man in the house when you were concerned with the police or with Wickham’s comfort. Elizabeth told me in her letter that the colonel is likely to be recalled soon to his military duties and young Alveston to London.”

Darcy said, “They will depart after the inquest, which I heard on Sunday will be held tomorrow. Your presence here, sir, will be a comfort to the ladies and a reassurance to me. Colonel Fitzwilliam will have acquainted you with the facts of Wickham’s arrest.”

“Succinctly, but no doubt accurately. He could have been giving me a military report. I almost felt obliged to throw a salute. I think that throwing a salute is the correct expression, I have no experience of military matters. Lydia’s husband seems to have distinguished himself by this latest exploit in managing to combine entertainment for the masses with the maximum embarrassment for his family. The colonel told me you were at Lambton visiting the prisoner. How did you find him?”

“In good heart. The contrast between his present appearance and that in the day following the attack on Denny is remarkable, but then, of course, he was in liquor and deeply shocked. He has recovered both his courage and his looks. He is remarkably sanguine about the result of the inquest and Alveston thinks he has a right to be. The absence of any weapon certainly weighs in his favour.”

They both seated themselves. Darcy saw that Mr Bennet’s eyes were straying towards the Edinburgh Review but he resisted the temptation to resume reading. He said, “I wish Wickham would make up his mind how he wishes to be regarded by the world. At the time of his marriage he was an irresponsible but charming lieutenant in the militia, he made love to us all, simpering and smiling as if he had brought to his marriage three thousand a year and a desirable residence. Later, after taking his commission, he metamorphosed into a man of action and public hero, a change certainly for the better and one highly agreeable to Mrs Bennet. And now we are expected to see him as deep-dyed in villainy and at some risk, although I hope remote, of ending as a public spectacle. He has always sought notoriety, but hardly, I think, the final appearance now threatened. I cannot believe him guilty of murder. His misdemeanours, however inconvenient for his victims, have not, as far as I know, involved violence either to himself or others.”

Darcy said, “We cannot look into another’s mind, but I believe him to be innocent and I shall ensure that he has the best legal advice and representation.”

“That is generous of you, and I suspect – although I have no firm knowledge – that it is not the first act of generosity which my family owes to you.” Without waiting for a reply, he said quickly, “I understand from Colonel Fitzwilliam that Elizabeth and Miss Darcy are engaged in some charitable enterprise, taking a basket of necessities to an afflicted family. When are they expected back?”

Darcy took out his watch. “They should be on their way now. If you are inclined for exercise, sir, would you care to join me and we can walk towards the woodland to meet them.”

It was obvious that Mr Bennet, although known to be sedentary, was willing to relinquish the Review and the comfort of the library fire for the pleasure of surprising his daughter. It was then that Stoughton appeared, apologising that he had not been at the door when his master returned and quick to fetch the gentlemen’s hats and greatcoats. Darcy was as eager as his companion to see the landaulet come into sight. He would have prevented the excursion had he thought it in any way dangerous, and he knew Alveston to be both trustworthy and resourceful, but since Denny’s murder he had been consumed with an unfocused and perhaps irrational anxiety whenever his wife was not within his view, and it was with relief that he saw the landaulet slow and then come to a stop within fifty yards of Pemberley. He had not realised how profoundly he was glad to see Mr Bennet until he saw Elizabeth get hurriedly out and run towards her father and heard her delighted “Oh Father, how good to see you!” as he enfolded her in his arms.

6

The inquest was held at the King’s Arms in a large room built at the back of the inn some eight years previously to provide a venue for local functions, including the occasional dance dignified always as a ball. Initial enthusiasm and local pride had ensured its early success but in these difficult times of war and want there was neither money nor inclination for frivolity and the room, now used mostly for official meetings, was seldom filled to anything like capacity and had the slightly depressing and neglected atmosphere of any place once intended for communal activity. The innkeeper, Thomas Simpkins, and his wife Mary had made the usual preparations for an event which they knew would undoubtedly attract a large audience and subsequently profit for the bar. To the right of the door was a platform large enough to accommodate a small orchestra for dancing, and on this had been placed an impressive wooden armchair taken from the private bar, and four smaller chairs, two on each side, for justices of the peace or other local worthies who chose to attend. All other chairs available in the inn had been brought into use and the motley collection suggested that neighbours had also made their contribution. Latecomers were expected to stand.

Darcy was aware that the coroner took an elevated view of his status and responsibilities and would have been happy to see the owner of Pemberley arrive in state in his coach. Darcy would himself have preferred to have ridden, as the colonel and Alveston proposed to do, but compromised by using the chaise. When he entered the room he saw that it was already well filled and there was the usual anticipatory chat which to Darcy sounded more subdued than expectant. It fell silent on his appearance and there was much touching of forelocks and murmurings of greeting. No one, not even among his tenants, came forward to invite his notice as he knew they would normally have done, but he judged that this was less an affront than a feeling on their part that it was his privilege to make the first move.

He looked round to see if there was an empty seat somewhere at the back, preferably with others that he could reserve for the colonel and Alveston, but at that moment there was a commotion at the door and a large wicker bath chair with a small wheel at the front and two much larger at the back, was being manoeuvred with difficulty through the door. In it Dr Josiah Clitheroe sat in some state, his right leg supported by an obtruding plank, the foot turbaned in a bandage of white linen, intricately wound. Those sitting at the front quickly disappeared and Dr Clitheroe was pushed through, not without difficulty since the small wheel, snaking wildly, proved recalcitrant. The chairs each side of him were immediately vacated and on one he placed his tall hat and beckoned to Darcy to occupy the second. The circle of chairs round them was now empty and there was at least some chance of a private conversation.

Dr Clitheroe said, “I don’t think this will take all day. Jonah Makepeace will keep everything under control. It is a difficult business for you, Darcy, and of course for Mrs Darcy. I trust she is well.”

“She is, sir, I am happy to say.”

“Obviously you can take no part in the investigation of this crime but no doubt Hardcastle has kept you informed of developments.”

Darcy said, “He has said as much as he thinks it prudent to reveal. His own position is one of some difficulty.”

“Well he need not be too cautious. He will in duty bound keep the High Constable informed and will also consult me as necessary, although I am doubtful that I can be of much assistance. He, Headborough Brownrigg and Petty Constable Mason seem to have things under control. I understand they have spoken to everyone at Pemberley and are satisfied that you all have alibis; hardly surprising – on the evening before Lady Anne’s ball there are better things to do than trudge through the Pemberley woodland bent on murder. Lord Hartlep too, I am informed, has an alibi, so at least he and you can be relieved of that anxiety. As he is not yet a peer it would be unnecessary, in the event of his being charged, for him to be tried in the House of Lords, a colourful but expensive procedure. You will also be relieved to know that Hardcastle has traced Captain Denny’s next of kin through the colonel of his regiment. It appears that he has only one living relative, an elderly aunt residing in Kensington whom he rarely visits but who supplies some regular financial support. She is nearly ninety and too old and frail to take a personal interest in events but has asked that Denny’s body, now released by the coroner, should be sent to Kensington for burial.”

Darcy said, “If Denny had died in the woodland by a known hand or by accident, it would be right for Mrs Darcy or myself to send her a letter of condolence, but in the circumstances that might be ill advised and even unwelcome. It is strange how even the most terrible and bizarre events have social implications and it is good of you to pass on this information, which will, I know, be a relief to Mrs Darcy. What about the tenants on the estate? I hardly like to question Hardcastle directly; have they all been cleared?”

“Yes, I gather so. The majority were at home and those who can never resist venturing forth even on a stormy night to fortify themselves at the local inn have produced a superfluity of witnesses, some of whom were sober when questioned and can be considered reliable. Apparently no one has seen or heard of any stranger in the neighbourhood. You know, of course, that when Hardcastle visited Pemberley two silly young girls employed as housemaids came forward with the story of seeing the ghost of Mrs Reilly wandering in the woodland. Appropriately, she chooses to manifest herself on the night of the full moon.”

Darcy said, “That is an old superstition. Apparently, as we later heard, the girls were there as a result of a dare and Hardcastle did not take it seriously. I thought at the time that they were telling the truth and that there could have been a woman in the woodland that night.”

Clitheroe said, “Headborough Brownrigg has spoken to them in Mrs Reynolds’s presence. They were remarkably persistent in affirming that they had seen a dark woman in the woods two days before the murder, and that she made a threatening gesture before disappearing among the trees. They are adamant that this apparition was neither of the two women at Woodland Cottage, although it is difficult to see how they can assert this so confidently since the woman was in black and faded away as soon as one of the girls screamed. If there was a woman in the woodland it is hardly of much importance. This was not a woman’s crime.”

Darcy asked, “Is Wickham co-operating with Hardcastle and the police?”

“I gather that he is erratic; sometimes he will answer the questions reasonably and at other times begins protesting that he, an innocent man, is being badgered by the police. You know, of course, that thirty pounds in notes was found in his jacket pocket; he remains resolutely uncommunicative about how this sum came into his possession, except to say that it was a loan to enable him to discharge a debt of honour and that he has solemnly sworn he will reveal nothing more. Hardcastle, as might be expected, thought that he could have stolen the money from Captain Denny’s body, but in that case it would hardly have been clean of any bloodstains, considering the blood on Wickham’s hands; nor, I imagine, would it be folded so neatly in Wickham’s notecase. I have been shown the notes and they are freshly minted. Apparently, Captain Denny told the landlord at the inn that he had no money.”

There was a moment in which neither spoke, then Clitheroe said, “I can understand that Hardcastle feels some reluctance to share information with you, as much for your protection as his, but since he is satisfied that all the family, visitors and servants at Pemberley have satisfactory alibis, it seems unnecessarily discreet to keep you in ignorance of important developments. I have to tell you, therefore, that he thinks the police have found the weapon, a large smooth-edged stone slab which was discovered under some leaves about fifty yards from the glade where Denny’s body was discovered.”

Darcy managed to conceal his surprise and, looking straight ahead, spoke in a low voice. “What evidence is there that this was in fact the weapon?”

“Nothing definite since there were no incriminating marks either of blood or hair on the stone but that is hardly surprising. Later that night, as you will remember, the wind gave way to heavy rain and the ground and leaves must have been sodden, but I have seen the slab and it is certainly of the size and type to have produced the wound.”

Darcy kept his voice low. “The woodland has been placed out of bounds to everyone on the Pemberley estate but I know that the police have been searching assiduously for the weapons. Do you know which officer made the discovery?”

“Not Brownrigg or Mason. They needed additional manpower so engaged petty constables from the next parish, including Joseph Joseph. Apparently his parents were so enamoured of their surname that they gave it to him also in baptism. He seems a conscientious and reliable man, but not, I surmise, particularly intelligent. He should have left the stone in place and called the other police as witnesses. Instead he carried it in triumph over to Headborough Brownrigg.”

“So there can be no proof that it was where he said it was found?”

“None, I imagine. There were, I am informed, a number of stones of different size at the site, all half-buried in the soil and under leaves, but no proof that this particular stone slab was among them. Someone years ago could have tipped out the contents of a barrow or accidently overturned it, probably as long ago as the building by your great-grandfather of Woodland Cottage when the building materials would have been carried through the woodland.”

“Will Hardcastle or the police be producing the stone slab this morning?”

“I understand not. Makepeace is adamant that, since it cannot be proved to be the weapon, it should not be part of the evidence. The jury will merely be informed that a stone has been found, and even this may not be mentioned; Makepeace is anxious that the inquest should not degenerate into a trial. He will make the duty of the jury plain, and it does not include usurping the powers of the assize court.”

“So you think they will commit him?”

“Undoubtedly, given what they will see as a confession. It would be remarkable if they did not. Ah, I see that Mr Wickham has arrived, looking surprisingly at ease for one in his invidious situation.”

Darcy had noticed that close to the platform there were three empty chairs guarded by petty constables, and Wickham, walking between two prison officers and with gyves on his wrists, was escorted to the middle chair and the two warders took their seats. His composure almost amounted to nonchalance as he surveyed his potential audience with little apparent interest, not fixing his eyes on any single face. The baggage containing his clothes had been delivered to the prison after Hardcastle had released it and he was wearing what was obviously his best jacket, while what could be seen of his linen bore witness to the care and skill of the Highmarten laundry maid. Smiling, he turned to one of the prison officers who responded with a nod. Glancing at him, Darcy could believe that he was seeing something of the handsome and charming young officer who had so enchanted the young ladies of Meryton.

Someone barked a command, the babble of conversation was hushed and the coroner, Jonah Makepeace, entered with Sir Selwyn Hardcastle and, after bowing to the jury, took his seat, inviting Sir Selwyn to take the one on his right. Makepeace was a slight man with a waxen face which in others might have been thought to denote illness. He had served now for twenty years as coroner and it was his pride that, at sixty, there had been no inquest, either in Lambton or at the King’s Arms, at which he had not presided. He had a long thin nose and a curiously formed mouth with a very full upper lip, and his eyes, under eyebrows which were as thin as lines drawn by a pencil, were as keen as they had been at twenty. He was highly regarded as a lawyer with a successful practice in Lambton and beyond, and with increasing prosperity and with anxious private clients awaiting his counsel he was never indulgent to witnesses who could not give their evidence clearly and concisely. There was a wall-mounted clock at the far end of the room at which he now directed a long, intimidating stare.

At his entrance all present had risen to their feet, then seated themselves when he had taken the chair. Hardcastle was on his right and the two policemen in the front row beneath the dais. The jury, who had been chattering together in a group, took their chairs then immediately rose. As a magistrate Darcy had been present at a number of inquests and he saw that the usual group of local worthies had been collected for the jury: George Wainwright the apothecary, Frank Stirling who kept the general store in Lambton, Bill Mullins the blacksmith at Pemberley village and John Simpson the undertaker, dressed as usual in a suit of funeral black said to be inherited from his father. The rest were all farmers and most had arrived at the last minute looking flustered and over-heated. It was never a good time to leave their farms.

The coroner turned to the prison officer. “You may remove the fetters from Mr Wickham. No prisoner has ever absconded from my jurisdiction.”

This was done in silence and Wickham, after massaging his wrists, stood quietly, his eyes occasionally scouring the room as if seeking a familiar face. The oath was administered, during which Makepeace regarded the jury with the sceptical intensity of a man contemplating the purchase of an obviously dubious horse before making his usual preliminary announcement. “We have met before, gentlemen, and I think you know your duty. It is to listen to the evidence carefully and pronounce on the cause of death of Captain Martin Denny, whose body was found in the woodland of Pemberley on or about ten of the clock on the night of Friday 14th October. You are not here to take part in a criminal trial nor to teach the police how to conduct their inquiry. Of the options before you, you may well consider that neither death by accident nor misadventure is appropriate, and a man does not commit suicide by striking a vicious blow to the back of his neck. That may logically lead you to the conclusion that this death was homicide and you will then consider two possible verdicts. If there is no evidence to indicate who was responsible, you will return a verdict of wilful murder by a person or persons unknown. I have put the options before you but I must emphasise that the verdict on the cause of death is entirely for you. If the evidence leads you to the conclusion that you know the identity of the killer, you should then name him or her, and as with all felonies, the perpetrator will be held in custody and committed for trial at the next assize at Derby. If you have any questions to put to a witness, please raise your hand and speak clearly. We will now get started, and I propose to call first Nathaniel Piggott, landlord of the Green Man inn, who will give evidence about the beginning of this unfortunate gentleman’s last journey.”

After that, to Darcy’s relief, the inquest proceeded at considerable speed. Mr Piggott had obviously been advised that it was wise in court to say as little as possible and, having taken the oath, merely confirmed that Mr and Mrs Wickham and Captain Denny had arrived at the inn on Friday afternoon by hack-chaise shortly after four and had ordered the chaise which he kept at the inn to take the party to Pemberley that evening, where they would leave Mrs Wickham, and then to proceed with the two gentlemen to the King’s Arms at Lambton. He had heard no quarrel between any of the party either during the afternoon or when they entered the chaise. Captain Denny had been quiet – he seemed a quiet gentleman – and Mr Wickham had been drinking steadily, but in his opinion could not be said to be drunk and incapable.

He was followed by George Pratt, the coachman, whose evidence was obviously keenly awaited and recounted at some length, always with reference to the behaviour of the horses, Betty and Millie. They had been working well until they entered the woodland, when they became so nervous that he had difficulty getting them to move. Horses always hated going into the woodland when there was a full moon because of the ghost of Mrs Reilly. The gentlemen might have been quarrelling inside the coach but he did not hear because he was controlling the horses. It was Captain Denny who had put his head out of the window and ordered him to stop, and who then left the chaise. He heard the captain say that Mr Wickham was now on his own and that he would have no part in it – or something like that. And then Captain Denny ran into the woods and Mr Wickham after him. It was sometime after that they heard shots, he could not be sure when, and Mrs Wickham, who was in a proper state, screamed to him to drive on to Pemberley, which he did. The horses by then were in such terror that he could hardly hold them and he was afeared that the chaise would be overturned before he got to Pemberley. He then described what had happened on the return journey, including the stopping of the coach so that Colonel Fitzwilliam could check on the family in Woodland Cottage. He reckoned the colonel was away about ten minutes.

Darcy gained the impression that Pratt’s story was already known to the jury, and probably to the whole of Lambton and Pemberley village and beyond, and his evidence was given with a back-ground of sympathetic groans and sighs, particularly when he dwelt on the distress of Betty and Millie. There were no questions.

Colonel the Viscount Hartlep was then called and the oath administered with impressive authority. The colonel briefly but firmly recounted his part in the events of the evening, including the finding of the body, evidence which was later repeated, also without emotion or embellishment, by Alveston, and lastly by Darcy. All three were asked by the coroner whether Wickham had spoken, and his damaging admission was repeated.

Before anyone else had a chance to speak, Makepeace asked the vital question. “Mr Wickham, you are resolutely maintaining your innocence of Captain Denny’s murder. Why then, when found kneeling over his body, did you say more than once that you killed him and that his death was your fault?”

The answer came without hesitation. “Because, sir, Captain Denny left the chaise out of disgust with my plan to leave Mrs Wickham at Pemberley uninvited and unexpected. I also felt that, had I not been drunk, I might have prevented him leaving the chaise and charging into the woodland.”

Clitheroe whispered to Darcy, “Totally unconvincing, the fool is overconfident. He will need to do better than this at the assizes if he is to save his neck. And how drunk was he?”

No questions were, however, asked, and it appeared that Makepeace was content to let the jury come to their opinion without his comments and was wary of encouraging the witnesses to speculate at length on what, precisely, Wickham had meant by his words. Headborough Brownrigg followed and had obvious pleasure in taking his time over his account of the police activity, including the search of the woodland. No information had been received of any strangers in the vicinity, the occupants of Pemberley House and of all the cottages on the estate had alibis and the investigation was still proceeding. Dr Belcher gave his evidence largely in medical terms, to which his audience listened with respect and the coroner with obvious irritation, before delivering his opinion in plain English that the cause of death was a heavy blow to the back of the head and that Captain Denny could not have survived such an injury for more than a few minutes, if that, although it was impossible to give an accurate estimate of the time of death. A slab of stone which could have been used by the assailant had been discovered and which, in his view, could in size and weight have produced such a wound if delivered by force, but there was no evidence to link this particular stone with the crime. Only one hand was raised before he left the witness box.

Makepeace said, “Well Frank Stirling, we usually hear from you. What is it you want to ask?”

“Just this, sir. We understand that Mrs Wickham was to be left at Pemberley House to attend the ball the next night, but not with her husband. I take it that Mr Wickham would not be received as a guest by his brother and Mrs Darcy.”

“And what is the relevance of Mrs Darcy’s guest list for Lady Anne’s ball to the death of Captain Denny, or indeed to the evidence just given by Dr Belcher?”

“Only this, sir, that if relations was so bad between Mr Darcy and Mr Wickham, and it might be that Mr Wickham was not a proper person to be received at Pemberley, then that would have some bearing on his character, as I see it. It is a powerful strange thing for a man to forbid his house to a brother unless it might be that the brother was a violent man or given to quarrelling.”

Makepeace appeared briefly to consider his words before replying that the relationship between Mr Darcy and Mr Wickham, whether or not it was the usual one between brothers, could have no relevance to the death of Captain Denny. It was Captain Denny not Mr Darcy who had been murdered. “Let us try to keep to the relevant facts. You should have raised the question when Mr Darcy was giving evidence if you thought it relevant. However, Mr Darcy can be recalled to the witness stand and asked whether Mr Wickham was in general a violent man.”

This was immediately done and in reply to Makepeace’s question, Darcy, after being reminded that he was still on oath, said that, as far as he knew, Mr Wickham had never had that reputation and that he personally had never seen him violent. They had not met for some years but at that time Mr Wickham had been generally known as a peaceable and socially affable man.

“I take it that satisfies you, Mr Stirling. A peaceable and affable man. Are there any further questions? No? Then I suggest that the jury now consider their verdict.”

After some conferring they decided to do this in private and, being dissuaded from entering their choice of venue, the bar, disappeared into the yard and stood for ten minutes at a distance in a whispering group. On their return they were formally asked for their verdict. Frank Stirling then stood up and read from a small notebook, obviously determined to deliver the words with the necessary accuracy and confidence. “We find, sir, that Captain Denny died from a blow to the back of the skull and that this fatal blow was delivered by George Wickham and, accordingly, Captain Denny was murdered by the said George Wickham.”

Makepeace said, “And that is the verdict of you all?”

“It is, sir.”

Makepeace took off his spectacles after glaring at the clock and replaced them in their case. He said, “After the necessary formalities Mr Wickham will be committed for trial at the next Derby assize. Thank you, gentlemen, you are dismissed.”

Darcy reflected that a process he had expected to be fraught with linguistic pitfalls and embarrassment had proved almost as much a matter of routine as the monthly parish meeting. There had been interest and commitment but no obvious excitement or moments of high drama, and he had to accept that Clitheroe was right, the outcome had been inevitable. Even if the jury had decided for murder by a person or persons unknown, Wickham would still be in custody as prime suspect and the police inquiries, centred on him, would have continued with almost certainly the same result.

Clitheroe’s servant now reappeared to take control of the wheelchair. Consulting his watch, Clitheroe said, “Three-quarters of an hour from start to finish. I imagine it went exactly as Makepeace planned, and the verdict could hardly be otherwise.”

Darcy said, “And the verdict at the trial will be the same?”

“By no means, Darcy, by no means. I could mount a very effective defence. I suggest you find him a good lawyer and if possible get the case transferred to London. Henry Alveston will be able to advise you on the appropriate procedure, my information is probably out of date. That young man is something of a radical, I hear, despite being heir to an ancient barony, but he is undoubtedly a clever and successful lawyer, although it is time he found himself a wife and settled on his estate. The peace and security of England depends on gentlemen living in their houses as good landlords and masters, considerate to their servants, charitable to the poor, and ready, as justices of the peace, to take a full part in promoting peace and order in their communities. If the aristocrats of France had lived thus, there would never have been a revolution. But this case is interesting and the result will depend on the answers to two questions: why did Captain Denny run into the woodland, and what did George Wickham mean when he said it was all his fault? I shall watch further developments with interest. Fiat justitia ruat caelum. I wish you good day.”

And with this the wicker bath chair was manoeuvred, again with some difficulty, through the door and out of sight.

7

For Darcy and Elizabeth the winter of 1803–4 stretched like a black slough through which they must struggle, knowing that spring could only bring a new ordeal, and perhaps an even greater horror, the memory of which would blight the rest of their lives. But somehow those months had to be lived through without letting their anguish and distress overshadow the life of Pemberley or destroy the peace and confidence of those who depended on them. Happily this anxiety was to prove largely unfounded. Only Stoughton, Mrs Reynolds and the Bidwells had known Wickham as a boy, and the younger servants had little interest in anything that happened outside Pemberley. Darcy had given orders that the trial should not be spoken of and the approach of Christmas was a greater source of interest and excitement than was the eventual fate of a man of whom the majority of the servants had never even heard.

Mr Bennet was a quiet and reassuring presence in the house, rather like a benign, familiar ghost. He spent some of the time when Darcy was able to be free in conversation with him in the library; Darcy, himself clever, valued high intelligence in others. From time to time Mr Bennet would visit his eldest daughter at Highmarten to ensure that the volumes in Bingley’s library were safe from the housemaids’ overzealous attention and to make a list of books to be acquired. He stayed at Pemberley, however, for only three weeks. A letter was received from Mrs Bennet complaining that she could hear stealthy footsteps outside the house every night and was suffering from continual palpitations and fluttering of the heart. Mr Bennet must come home at once to provide protection. Why was he concerning himself with other people’s murders when there was likely to be one at Longbourn if he did not immediately return?

His loss was felt by the whole household, and Mrs Reynolds was overheard saying to Stoughton, “It is strange, Mr Stoughton, that we should miss Mr Bennet so much now that he has left when we seldom set eyes on him when he was here.”

Darcy and Elizabeth both found solace in work, and there was much to be done. Darcy had in hand some plans already formed for the repair of certain cottages on the estate, and was busier than he had ever been engaged in parish matters. The war with France, declared the previous May, was already producing unrest and poverty; the cost of bread had risen and the harvest was poor. Darcy was much engaged in the relief of his tenants and there was a regular stream of children calling at the kitchen to collect large cans of nourishing soup, thick and meaty as a stew. There were few dinner parties and those only for close friends, but the Bingleys came regularly to give encouragement and help, and there were frequent letters from Mr and Mrs Gardiner.

After the inquest Wickham had been transferred to the new county prison at Derby where Mr Bingley continued to visit him and reported that he generally found him in good spirits. In the week before Christmas they finally heard that the application to transfer the trial to London had been agreed and that it would take place at the Old Bailey. Elizabeth was determined that she would be with her husband on the day of the trial, although there was no question of her being present in the courtroom. Mrs Gardiner wrote with a warm invitation that Darcy and Elizabeth should spend their time in London at Gracechurch Street, and this was gratefully accepted. Before the New Year George Wickham was transferred to Coldbath Prison in London and Mr Gardiner took over the duty of making regular visits and of paying the sums from Darcy which ensured Wickham’s comfort and his status with the turnkeys and his fellow prisoners. Mr Gardiner reported that Wickham remained optimistic and that one of the chaplains at the prison, the Reverend Samuel Cornbinder, was seeing him regularly. Mr Cornbinder was known for his skill at chess, a game which he had taught Wickham and which was now occupying much of the prisoner’s time. Mr Gardiner thought that the reverend gentleman was welcomed more as a chess opponent than as an admonisher to repentance but Wickham seemed genuinely to like him and chess, at which he was becoming interested to the point of obsession, was an effective antidote to his occasional outbursts of anger and despair.

Christmas came and the annual children’s party, to which all the children on the estate were invited, was held as usual. Both Darcy and Elizabeth felt that the young should not be deprived of this yearly treat, especially in such difficult times. Gifts had to be chosen and delivered to all the tenants as well as the indoor and outdoor staff, a task which kept both Elizabeth and Mrs Reynolds occupied, while Elizabeth tried to keep her mind busy by a planned programme of reading, and by improving her performance at the pianoforte with Georgiana’s help. With fewer social obligations Elizabeth had time to spend with her children or in visiting the poor, the elderly and the infirm, and both Darcy and Elizabeth were to find that, with days so filled with activity, even the most persistent nightmares could occasionally be kept at bay.

There was some good news. Louisa was much happier since Georgie had gone back to his mother and Mrs Bidwell was finding life easier now that the child’s crying was not causing Will distress. After Christmas the weeks suddenly seem to pass far more quickly as the date set for the trial rapidly approached.